What happens when the sun rises here... in a land of make believe. Does it burn? Or is it merely the image ...more to the point, the idea of the sun that shines here? It rises and sets, keeping universal rhythms of the world that mimics it (or the one it mimics), and windows must be shut and curtains drawn to protect the one who must sleep the day to its extinction into dusk.
     When night comes, it is as though there has never been a day. It is complete but for the overhanging of the sickle moon and the trails of dust and stars (and the dreams of stars). He stirs here much as he does anywhere, with the first, jerky movement of his fingers, the intake of a breath, and the opening of his eyes.
     Davydd has to right himself, he has to remember where he is. It is disorienting, being born anew each night. One must count one's soul and familiar sights and sounds as if one were counting the number of fingers and toes on a newborn. All here? Yes? Good.
     And then he rolls over for the evening's first stretch. For him, it is a coiling writhe, complete with the popping of joints and sinews that mark the waking of an older body. It is only then that he turns his bronze-topped head, his hair so short, to see if there is anyone else with him.

     The room seems empty at first, but it is not empty. The curtains are slightly parted, now, where before they were closed. You know that they were closed; though the sun here seems never to have burned you, there are those that love you, taking no risks - habits gained in one world, echoed in another.
     The room is so quiet, save for the sound of your stirring, and there is the sound of the sea. The bedclothes are in mild disarray, but only from your sleep and waking. They were not so crass as to make love while you were unconscious, with you in the bed but insensate.
     You are not that much a cuckold...
     "Good morning, Davydd." The voice is one you've come to know well - first with exasperation (and possibly in due course, a bit of hatred), then with fondness and familiarity. It is Fiona - of course; it is her chamber, her kingdom, is it not? She pulls the drapes away from the balcony, now that you're awake, the sun fully set. She looks at you, and lets you look at her.
     Blue and white - they've become her colours, as much as red and green and black are yours, red and white are Rhodri's. She's dispensed entirely with trousers for the duration, it seems, for tonight she wears a very simple gown, blue bound round the middle loosely with a white sash. It flows like cotton batik, and her hair flows down her back in a smooth oak-white river. Heart of gold...
     She waits a moment, still looking at you from that edge between balcony and room. "Would you like me to have food brought?" Fiona takes a single step forward, then pauses. "Coffee, maybe."

     A thick arm completely covered in tattoos lies across the bridge of his small nose, as if to shield his eyes from the light. But that cannot be it. There is little light in here. You have clothed the chamber in gentle dimness. "Coffee would be good, diolch."
     His other arm lies at his side, his hand patting the surface of the bed in a rhythm that says Come join me. "Did you sleep alright?" he wonders. "Did you have a good day?" Davydd doesn't ask about the Oak King. Where Rhodri is, is Rhodri's business. His concern is with you.
     And, perhaps, with breakfast...
     Vibrant blue dragons twist and turn here, even as they are still upon the material, mortal realm. Here... they are alive. Davydd yawns mightily, not out of weariness but out of waking, and the vipered teeth are distended to their dangerous full length, making him seem like the Dragon to End All Dragons...

     Food isn't difficult to obtain here. Everywhere, there is plentifulness; everywhere, the cornucopia of fertility coming closer to harvest.
     It fits both her present tumescence and her presence as wife of the Holly King, the King of the Harvest...
     "Here, let me." Gentle footsteps approach, and a tray is placed upon the bed. Covered dishes are identifiable by smell. Bacon fried to just this side of crisp, eggs with hollandaise atop rafters of ham, an oatmeal porridge that is nutty and seasoned with flecks of grated cinnamon stick and topped with both honey and cream. There is a breakfast curry, and fried mushrooms that have turned golden brown; toast spread with butter and quince preserves, and potatoes and onions smashed together in a pan.
     Were you an ordinary man, the cholesterol might kill you; the amount is certainly kingly enough, and paired with a press of roasted coffee and a service of cream and sugar, a carafe of sweetened apricot juice as well. She has experience of old, with your appetites...
     The tray is placed within reach, and then she moves to the other side of you, settling on the bed. One hand strokes slowly against your skin, your dragoned hide. "I spent the day waiting for you," Fiona smiles as she tells you, "and making sure that I could be free tonight. I slept well, yes. I was exactly where I wanted to be."

     Naturally, he goes for the bacon first. The man loves his protein. But his eyes are pulled to each and every thing, as if planning where and how it shall all fit in his belly. Rolling onto his side, his arm moving away from his face and his painted back given to you to rub instead, Davydd pours a cuppa.
     Dark green eyes lift and he turns his head to see you past a shoulder. "That must have been ruddy boring," he rumbles. "Do I talk in my sleep? Or do I just lie there like a lump?" He smirks and then says nothing as he allows his mouth to tear meat.
     He devours it, as he turns back around to put the carafe down and add the dollop of cream and several spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee. "I think I'll stay here a while yet before I ...head back. I need to put my game face on, you know..." Pretend like I don't give a shite.
     Remember when that came so easy, Davydd?

     "I'd like it if you stayed." If you talk in your sleep, she isn't arming you with the knowledge, ap Owain. Fiona smiles at you, watching you eat. "I've missed you."
     She keeps it simple, for the moment. Her hand resting there without pressure. Her weight on the bed - lightly for now, gradually getting heavier. Her attention on you, but ... without demand.
     She leans forward to steal a mushroom, snatching it away and popping it into her mouth. It's hot, and she blows out steam, rolling it around before she can chew it properly and then swallow, and you get a small grin that crinkles the corners of her eyes. It fades by degrees, and she watches you for a long moment before she allows her gaze to tip downwards. "I'd like it if you stayed around," Fiona repeats. "Whether or not you go hunting, of course."

     The bacon has been decimated. With a swallow of coffee, eyebrows quirking at the heat, Davydd begins to survey the rest of the field. It is a commander's look, that gaze. "I will go hunting with Rhodri... but not tonight. I think a quiet night with you... is all I want tonight. No guests...no Oak Kings. Just you and me..."
     He rolls slightly back, giving a touch of his weight to you...mostly to lie flush against you... and looks at you over a shoulder. "How does that sound? I... have so much in my brain... I just need... comfort and quiet for a night, to let it all sink in..."
     Davydd exhales, sipping at the coffee and then setting it on the tray to free his hands for some of the toast and quince preserves. Buttery sweetness is prepared and soon lifted to his mouth.

     "I'd rather you didn't go anywhere tonight." That is the voice of the wife speaking, though it is sad quietly. And her hand moves over your arm to your elbow, a brief pressure there. "I've missed you, Davy."
     Her hand lifts from your elbow to touch your hair - gentle little touches, almost hesitant, as if to see how you react before she commits herself. As if she is uncertain of her welcome. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend a quiet evening at home with," Fiona murmurs to you, brushing her fingers against your ear. There is no further speech from her for a long moment. She resettles on the bed, watching you as quietly as any cat might. When she stirs, it is to stand, taking away emptied plates to let them melt away from the bed.
     "Would you like to walk in the gardens, or maybe down by the beach? We can stay here if you like, but you're not confined."

     "No," Davydd says quietly, licking his fingers free of the jam. "Maybe later, cariad. I... am fine here. Besides, I have food and a woman here, what could possibly be out in the garden for me?" He smiles for you. "Come on now," he murmurs, "...don't look so sad. I'm the one who should be sad."
     And he is. In truth, he has no appetite but he feels compelled to stuff his face. Maybe it will help to keep his mouth shut. O, where were these snacks back then?
     Davydd takes a swallow of the coffee and takes a break from the banquet. He picks up the linen napkin, wiping his mouth and he rolls onto his back -- carefully! -- and wraps an arm around you. A leg comes up, bending at the knee, his foot on the surface of the bed. He moves it back and forth slowly.
     "I miss you too," he says softly. "But for all that we see one another, I don't know how we can miss each other." His mouth twists at that and his eyes lift to you. "I am moving slowly, I'm sorry, love. I hope you don't mind me staying in bed a while..."

     "I don't mind you staying in bed, as long as it's my bed." Fiona allows you to swallow her up in your arms, moving down to you as you roll. "As for sad... Davy, when you hurt, I can't help but hurt a little. Don't you know?"
     You receive a smile, sweet and wistful, and her hands come up to cradle your face. "We miss each other because for all the time we spend together, we know we have to spend time apart. And I think of you almost constantly, Davydd; the little things that happen throughout the day. I make notes - I have to tell Davy about that, he'll find it amusing, or annoying; I want to see him smile because of that, or hear him make some rude remark. You're good at smiling and rude remarks." Soft are the lips that brush your own, soft the smile, filled with tenderness.
     "Fiona tilts her head and there is a fall of hair against your cheek. "I ... wish I could make things right. For you, I mean. I know that in - a lot of ways, this is my fault," Fiona murmurs. Her hands are slow to release your face, but they do, slender fingers trickling down as she blinks. She turns away. "I just am very sorry that you had this happen. I know you are bereft."

     Dragons are on display, covered and revealed with every slow motion of his leg. On his side, coiling near his hip, along his thigh, couched there in the shadows between the covers and his skin. "If you hurt when I am hurting, then I fear for your heart," your dragon king lilts to you, turning his head on the pillow to meet your gaze once more.
     "But," his hand lifts, losing itself in your hair for a moment as he brushes it back. He knows it's in vain, your hair is an unending river. Maybe the source of all rivers for all he knows. "...I thank you all the same. We share our highs and our lows, oes? That's what marriage is."
     Davydd closes his eyes as your hair falls against his cheek, becoming a curtain before his eyes. "It's not your fault, Fiona," he murmurs. He pauses for a long moment, for a long moment there is nothing, no sound, not even breathing. He draws in a breath to speak. "It's my fault," he says it aloud. "I'm the one who cracked. Not you, not them. Oh... sure... for a while I blamed you, back when I was with Sandrine, but you were a victim of it as much, if not more, than I was. So... don't blame yourself. I won't hear of it. It's... my doing and my responsibility and now... now it is my pain and my grief."

     "I don't fear for my heart," Fiona answers steadily, remaining close to you. Skin touches to skin, and her hand moves to your chest, to cover your own heart. "I know it's trite, but we have something large enough ... you soothe me, when I'm with you. When I'm with you... as I've said before, everything else goes away. There is nothing else - no other world, no other people, no other life. I don't wonder what it would have been like if we'd met at a different time, under different circumstances. I think what we've got is better for having had to fight for it a bit. We know its worth."
     She smiles, and she pulls herself along you until she can lie facing you, her hand dragging at yours, down to her belly. "I never had a future, before I met you. Before our lives became ... so inextricably tangled, I was just in the moment, running away from what I didn't want to confront, defiantly picking fights with myself. Maybe what happened makes me a victim, Davy. But I wouldn't change one moment of my pain for anything, now. Now I have ... more than I ever dreamed of. And it is because I've got you."
     Small fingers slide against your dragoned skin again, and lazily she watches them continue to writhe, watches how they react as if a child on the other side of the glass at an aquarium. "Your pain and grief are my pain and grief. I can't lift it from you, but I do share it. Promise me that you'll tell me if there's anything I can do at any point, to help - even if it's just helping you get drunk, Davy. I'm not blind to you. Since I met you, I ... my senses have all sharpened where you're concerned. But if you need me to pretend to be blind for a night..." Fiona's hands cup together over one of yours.
     "I guess I'm using too many words, as usual," she whispers, lifting grey eyes to your dark green ones. "Really, I suppose all I'm saying is that I love you."

     It softens him, soothes him, for his hand to be upon your swelling belly. To know that there is goodness to go with pain, honey with the salt, Life for the Death. The Holly King, the Lord of Death, must know that for all he brings, there will be Life again.
     Davydd rolls over to face you, his eyes focusing on that swell of life. His fingers move over it, and he smiles a little. "I can hear their hearts beating." He closes his eyes. "Very fast, like little birds."
     He swallows, opening his eyes. "My son...I would like to name him Edward. That's ... what you can do for me. And... if I think of anything else, I'll let you know. Just...lying here is good for now." Davydd lifts his hand to your hair, pulling you in for a kiss. It is a gentle kiss, just a little tugging, but not his usual wild warmth and thorny prickles. "Edward...Iowerth." And the other one will be named William, so thinks the High King.
     If his old friendships have died, then he'll let the names be reborn, a living tribute of his love.

     "As you wish."
     It is said softly, her hand over yours, her smile small in echo of your own. She is young, young yet. She's less than a quarter of a century behind her, and she was nineteen when she collided with you and Time stopped. But for all her eternal youth, there is more behind it than youth alone. Warmth and reassurance...
     "They already know their fathers," Fiona murmurs, moving close. Her eyes are closed now, but her lips curve upwards. "I've both seen them and heard them, now. As they will be, not as they are. We'll have to start making chastity belts for the local farmers' daughters..."

     "It wouldn't matter," Davydd says with a smile. "Chastity belts have locks and locks can be picked. If you've a quick and steady hand. And what are the chances of that?" he drolls out. "Diolch," he adds in a hush.
     Edward and William will be remembered each time he says his son's and his grandson's name. It is a balm to the heart. Maybe... maybe he will even tell them.
     "I have had a few dreams. And... I have begun to see my kingdom. I will be building soon. I will... have a room for us, my queen," he kisses you again. "For you to come to me with my boys, son and grandson." A curling lip shows the edge of distended vipers, a dragon's pleasure viewed in his smile. "I love you too," he answers softly.
     Davydd closes his eyes, buried in your golden hair. It makes a nice refuge. "You want to help me get drunk. I think... I would like that. Do you mind, love? Here... I'll play music... and sing to you...you can pour the drinks like my favorite barmaid."

     "Yes, well," Fiona is resigned to it, "they will take after you. And so they will be utter wretches and I'm sure I'll spoil them horribly. It'll be up to you to tan their hides for them when they get out of hand; I'm sure by the time they hit puberty they'll be bigger than I am, anyway."
     Her hands return to cradling your face, there when you kiss her. They slide to your shoulders and she curves into you comfortably, companionably. "I want to help," Fiona murmurs. "If I can, anyway. But ... I am glad you're going to begin building soon. I look forward to seeing it in more than the flash I've seen so far. Funny thing, magic..."
     Her voice falls to a hush. "I never thought I'd be happy. But - you made it happen. I never expected you to be my happiness..."
     She smiles, then stirs, moving to sit up. "I can play barmaid," Fiona agrees, "and you can serenade me in a drunken stupor, Davy. But I'll have to get up. Bear with me." She isn't yet rotund, but she's gradually increasing. Everything takes a little more effort than it used to. "What's your poison tonight, Davy? Irish, vodka, Guinness?"

     Rolling onto his back, Davydd exhales in thought. That's a good question. "Guinness'll just make me weepy. Better go with something from Here... something fermented. I recommend the lilac wine. Worse it could do is make me horny," he chuckles, "...I'll take my chances on that."
     Davydd sits up, but only briefly, just long enough to pile the pillows behind his back so he can achieve a partial recline. One leg lies straight, his other bent at the knee, the sheets tucked around his groin and partially covering his bent leg.
     And where will he get the instrument? Rhodri left his guitar behind. With a few modifications, namely changed from electric to acoustic... and the addition of six extra strings...it is perfect, and held on his lap.
     A strum proves it's still in tune, and his fingers move easily, expertly against the strings and frets. An Andalusian tune springs from his fingertips, bringing with it visions of a hot and arid plain, and horses both strong and beautiful.

     "Well, if you were trying to get horny, I'd recommend a bottle of my cider," Fiona says blithely, casting you a sly look. "Or some of the apple brandy, from Here. But lilac wine it is, then." And she rises, her gown changing as she does, her hair as well.
     She becomes something almost Grecian, now, all white and shining robes like a toga, graceful lines and hair coiled atop her head. Sandals upon her feet, but soft ones, to cushion her footsteps rather than announce them, and into Being she summons an amphora. When she bends and lifts the lid, the smell of lilacs, heady and sweet and strong as honey rises to fill the room.
     She dips a ladle into the top of the amphora, filling a goblet with the purple wine (purple in scent if not actually in colour), and this she brings to you where you've arranged yourself, a smile for the music but no comment made to interrupt. Your glass is set next to you, in the coil of carved ivy that provides a rest for such glasses, and then she moves to the balcony...
     The drapes are tugged wide open, the doors opened as well. The salt of the sea comes rolling in on the breeze, the stars and the crescent moon visible above. Somewhere, there is the roll of the surf that carries the ships to and from her harbor; but of these, Fiona makes no mention. Instead, she returns to your side, slowly lowering herself to sit on the floor, looking at you as she braces herself on her palms.

     "Why are you sitting on the cold hard floor, when you have my warm, hard lap?" Davydd wonders, his hand lifting from the sound box and the strings to take the glass as it is set down. Dark green eyes lower their gaze to you, forests between the bronze of his lashes. "Come back up here...I need you to warm me..."
     He lifts the goblet to his mouth, he takes a deep swallow, making a humming sound in his throat before setting it aside. Your ocean tide sets the tempo, slow and steady the music that follows it. Rolling notes, deep and resonant, set the rhythm.
     His voice is earthy, with roughness and sweetness both (life and death again). The words are Welsh, the syllables and vowels rolling from his lyrical tongue upon the rising and lowering sounds of plucked notes. He sings of a dragon bewitched by a wave, and he being bewitched by you.

     Fiona laughs at that. "I didn't want to displace the instrument." But she moves to rise to her feet, a slow process again - everything is slowed, tonight. Drawn out and elastic, it stretches without time, without words.
     Your goblet is refilled and replaced, and then she moves back to you, settling on the bed and drawing her legs up. Both hands go to one of your shoulders, and she leans up against you without fear of you being unable to play; she's so light, to you, isn't she? Even now. And you're capable of telling her if you want her to move. Her cheek finds your shoulder, and she sighs, a contented little sound. For all that it is only late summer here, it is getting into your season, here. It is getting to be time for Harvest.
     "Am I still worse than Helen, Davy?" Fiona murmurs it when your lyrics fade back to instrumental, her cheek moving against your upper arm with her speaking. "You made me cry with that song. Noone had ever written a song for me, before."

     His song goes still, his fingers toying with the strings and suspending notes midair to... just hang there, loitering. Davydd turns his head, bending to brush his mouth against your forehead. "That was a good song..." Leaning back, he pauses to recall it and his fingers find their way. It's a slower song than when he first played it, perhaps even a touch bluesy
     "Fire flies upon the river... up and over the swollen stream. She said, don't you believe in anything... or me? She set fire to a thousand paper ships. She's worse than Helen." He looks at you, his eyes softening. Yes, he hit the nail on the head with that one. He realizes it now. You say that to him all the time: don't you believe in anything or me?
     "She said... don't cry a river when I'm gone," he grins at that, chuckling lyrical, "...can't you just picture it? A thousand burning ships setting fire to the forest. Ah, she's worse than Helen ever was to Troy. So...what am I supposed to do... ? Tell her no and send her packing?" Davydd shakes his head. "She said," he whisper-sings it: "... don't you have faith in anything? Or me? So she set fire to a thousand paper ships... she's worse than Helen ever was to Troy..."
     He lets the notes trickle out and away, he looks at you with a tear lingering on his face. "I write best when I write about you. Do you want me to write an ode to your swelling breasts? They deserve a poem. Christ, look at them." Davydd grins a sideways grin, a curved viper showing. He stops the song to take another long drink.

     Her hand comes up to wipe at her eyes, first one eye and then the other. She smears the evidence of her emotions away just like a child, with her fist at first before changing it over and using her palm. "If you're going to write, write about us..."
     Fiona touches a fingertip to your cheek, trailing it over to feel the wetness of your tears, mingled with the evidence of her own. "Maybe it's all happened like lightning," she whispers. "All at once, changing everything, even though for the longest time, we tried to pretend it wasn't so - not on fire, nothing undone. And eventually - we let ourselves be transformed by it, and we've been together for a bit. Maybe not a long time to you, Old Man." She teases her fingertip up to the edge of your ear. "But to me... and through a lot."
     "I think ... that we've managed to build something together, with all our fears and secrets and prejudices ... that's something more amazing than any kingdom." Fiona leans in to brush her lips to your cheek, then to your lips, a cool rustling of linens in her passage. "It deserves something solid, don't you think? A painting, a statue, a song - I don't know. I just don't want it to be a memorial. Memorials are for dead things, and our relationship has somehow survived that fate."
     She pulls away, her fingertip moving to touch your lips, following the curve, touching one of your viper fangs. "The more time I spend with you, Davydd, the more I like you." Fiona smiles, half-wistfully. "Love came before liking, in your case. But I both love you and I like you. I like your company. And ... I always want to be with you. I'm never not in the mood to see you, even when you piss me off. Do you think having children will change that? I hope not."

     You touch a fang. It is the same as if you thrust your hand down his britches (if he were wearing any, that is) and gave him a squeeze. His eyes roll, glimmering until they close, and sound rumbles in the depth of his throat.
     And, yes, the gathered sheets at his waist tug and pull with the sudden lift...
     Oh, you want him to listen? You'll need to move your finger off his viper. And...whatever you do...don't stroke it!

     "Shark," she accuses you at that roll of your eyes. But she's amused, not alarmed. Her hand moves away for the moment and she waits to see if her words sink in at all; then she rises to refill your glass. She is a very conscientious barmaid.
     "Silly man," Fiona calls, looking at you from over her shoulder, lips curving. "Don't you know that you can only have a wench on your lap if you show the colour of your coin?"
     It's laughing that she refills your glass, replaces it once more within range, then replaces herself up against your side. And now her finger goes again to your lips, tracing the corner of your mouth. "Davy," she murmurs. "My Davy. Forever at not quite forty and always a little boy despite that. Just how I love you. My favourite playmate, lover, confidante and friend. Do you still need to get drunk?"

     His eyes open as your finger recedes, his hunger slipping away. "I like you, too. You make me laugh, and god knows... I need someone around who can do that. That song... it's about how right you are, and how I never listen," Davydd grins at that.
     "You like me? Good god, you have the fortitude of an elephant, and the patience of a saint," Davydd exhales. He strokes the strings, pretty music following thereafter. I will come up with songs about you. And lullabyes for the boyos," he notes. "And as for getting drunk? Hmm... no, I don't need to get drunk. I'll save that for the mortal realm."
     Davydd looks at you, taking the moment to set the guitar aside for a moment. Your touch on his viper has had a lingering physical effect. His fiery eyebrows twitch upward as you put your finger to his mouth again. "I am a childish git, that much is certain," he smirks. "I'd like to hope it's charming some of the time..."

     "It is," Fiona declares, and you receive a grin that is both impish and gamine. "It is very charming. You have me charmed, Davy. I'm quite under your spell. When I'm apart from you, I long for you. When I'm with you... well, I think we've covered that. It's emotional, not magical - but it's got its own kind of magic to it. It's why, even though we're already married, I look forward to our wedding - because I want to be known as your woman. I want everyone to know. I want to wear your mark on my skin for the world to see."
     You receive a sly, sidling, sidelong glance, and then you have a woman upon your lap, her arms going around your neck, a pair of soft feminine lips pressing firmly to yours. Davy, don't you know? You are the Holly King, and I'm your woman. Of course I like you. We're a part of one another. Even if it's not what I started as - it's who I've become. Because of you and because I love you, I try to become what I best can for us both. For now and forever.
     Her lips come away, and her hand comes up, two fingers against your lips as if to silence you. "I'm going to ride you into the bedsheets tonight," Fiona murmurs, eyes trilling to blue as she watches your expression, mischief again moving into them. "I'm going to do my best to wear you out. See how you like it when the shoe's on the other foot, Davy. You're more than charming, don't you know? You're the gleam of metal being drawn out of a scabbard, the moonlight on freshly fallen snow. You're the wind through the trees at the edge of the graveyard, and the quiet of the moments that tick between seconds. And I love every bit of you, even when you roll in stinky from a pub and make me wonder if there's been another woman. Because it's you. Not just as the Holly King, because even as a king, sometimes you need just to be a man. Because you're you, Davy. And that's all I need you to be... except mine."

     Beneath the press of your fingers, his lips move to speak but halt. The slightly wide-eyed look he gives you makes him look somewhat alarmed. Could he be worried about you enacting such revenge? If his mind seems to worry, his body seems to be up for the challenge.
     I'm an old man. It won't take long to wear me out. I'm the most dangerous man I know... in thirty minute increments. You must have me confused for someone young and virile. The tone beneath your skin is teasing droll. Maybe he doesn't think you're up to such a challenge. You, outlast me?
     Or maybe it's a crack at your much younger (in all respects) husband, the glittering Oak King.
     You call him by his names, his aspects, and it's as much an incantation as anything. The forests in his eyes grow lush in color, dark woods and deep thickets to draw you in. His lips part beneath your own again in a wide and spreading grin.

     She is in your lap and her arms go round you, holding you tightly for a moment - as if afraid you might dissolve and fade away. Leaving her alone again, arms empty of you again, to wait, and wonder.
     If you are old, then let me give you my youth. But I think you're young and virile enough. Remember our first night, Davy? The canopy of your realm and your bed all at once, and your heat was ... incredible. She kisses you as she thinks it, eyes closed to enjoy the velvet artistry of the moment. Her tongue darts to tease yours, finding your fangs, the roof of your mouth, a flickering exploration with familiarity with danger. With the kiss, with the thoughts, there are bright remembered images, fragments of memories.
     Small are the hands that brush your face, trailing down your shoulders to your chest. Fiona changes her position to be astride your lap, thighs spreading wide as she leans against you with her toga sliding up to her hips. Do you remember? Her first night in your bed, with all the trepidation of any virgin, giving over to passion. So much for waiting and taking it slow. We've never taken it slow - we used up all our patience in the waiting to come together, from when we met to rolling around in your bed, she tells you sweetly, with wry humour in the thought.
     You, taking her on your piano, apples spreading overhead; her, serving you apples for the very first time, fraught with Meanings yet undiscovered. Phone calls when separated, you in London and her in Belgium, and your eventual return with star-pocked midnight birds and curling ivy to hold her to your bed. You know, Old Man, for someone who isn't kinky, you do have a way about you. She breaks the kiss, trailing smaller kisses down your chest, hands following to smooth wherever her lips have travelled. Ivy, and ritual drinking of my blood followed by sex, and having your wicked way with me in the confessional at the Abbey, and taking me on your altar in the wood... Davy, all any kink is, is elevating it to the state of ceremony. And you make me feel so good - so special, so wanted, so loved, when we're together. I don't care if it's dressed up or not. All it has to do is be you...
     She is sliding off your lap as she reaches further and further down, until she is kneeling on the floor next to the bed, turning a smile of incredible sweetness up at you. I love you, Davy. My king, my husband, the only man I could ever consider my master. I respect you - even when I give you shite, you know that? But let me show you. Fiona leans forward, grasping you with one hand, her other hand curling against your painted thigh as her lips part around the head of your cock.
     I love you ...

     He thought, for the splittest seconds, fragments of nanoseconds really, of saying No to you, No to this, Not tonight. But, why not tonight, of all nights? If ever there was a night to escape from reality with a beautiful young girl's mouth wrapped around your cock, it's this one.
     He's barely had a minute to react to all the stimulation. To the sound of your voice plucked from the air, to the feel and taste of your mouth at his, your tongue teasing the fine points between Life and Death, to the images you conjure, ending with your mouth around his head (the more intelligent of the two some nights). It's like you popped him into your mouth to let him melt like chocolate. The blood surges, his hand lands upon your golden hair, and his body twists to the wet warmth all in the same motion. He swells between your lips, thick and pressing at the walls of your mouth. A synapse fires in his brain, and his hand sweeps back the golden hair to hold it out of your way...and to keep you right where you are.
     Yes, why not lose yourself in this? Why punish yourself here? It's your only enjoyment, so take it when it's offered.
     There are words that pop and sizzle like Christmas coals in your mind, beneath your skin, between your thighs even, unable in this moment of pleasant surprise and unabashed lust to be coherent. His body, on the other hand, is most eloquent, thrusting him in your mouth, twisting him to what you offer, the dragons letting loose their magic in secretion. They whisper to you where your mouth strokes them:

I am the sigh in the darkness
I am the groan at your ear
I am the thing that you lust for
I am the thing you most fear
     Davydd's hips curl forward, sliding slow but fully into the envelope of your mouth. The mistletoe tangles over his balls with clumps of provocative clustered berries. Your ears are filled with the sound of leaves in the forest as the press against your mouth and chin.
I am the child in the belly
I am the king 'tween your thighs
I am the twitch of your body
I am the shine in your eyes

     She is not willing to easily take no for an answer, tonight. She offers you a moment of forgetfulness, if no more; the promise of her ripening body, the openness of her arms and of her heart. Her tongue moves wetly against your manhood, the essence of your virility, and you hear a small sigh escape her.
     Once, being here like this would have been unthinkable. Her mouth moves forward with your thrust, then draws back, her hand still firm around the base of you. Her tongue twines as if to hold you in place, even as she draws back and away.
     "My liege," Fiona murmurs, lips almost swollen now as she rises to her feet. The toga unravels, sliding away from her skin to reveal her to your eyes, to the myriad eyes that might watch in the darkness of your wooded gaze. "I am yours. Let me serve you..."
     She advances on you again, her hands rubbing and kneading wherever they touch, her skin rubbing against yours as she nudges you back on the bed and rises over you. She is both caressing and massaging, her nakedness on display for you as she works, her sex brushing the head of your erection each time she dips and bends to touch you. "You got me pregnant, Davy. It's a king's job to impregnate his queen, isn't it? Fertility for the land. It should show you that you're not all washed up yet." The words are said lightly, teasingly, as teasing as the brush of the heart-shaped mound that touches so lightly, so gently and pulls away.
     "Ardh rhi," Fiona whispers, "your kingdom is built thus. Wife and vassal states, heirs and building materials. I'm going to have your fat red-headed babies... and when it's time, you'll come to me and knock me up again. Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.. but I have to tell you, the idea does wicked things to my brain." She bends forward to find your mouth with her own, the heaviness of her breasts rubbing your chest. Slowly, her hips move in semicircles, pressing down just a little more on you as her knees balance to either side of your hips - semaphore messages of erotic demand. My king...

     Onto his back he rolls, onto his back where you will keep him until you tire of keeping him. When the High Queen desires, it is the High King who fills the role of the servant. His left hand, the left arm fully painted from shoulder to wrist, takes his erection in hand, its size a fitting companion to his palm. His hand grips and slides as your hands knead and rub. It all becomes one glorious, massaging orgy.
     The Holly King's hand grips you by the hip as you brush your sex to his, spanking and holding you there for the tease of a thrust. The look in his eyes indicates that he is giving the power to you, to take from him what you want of him tonight. Tonight, he belongs to the Queen.
     Davydd's mouth twists a pointed smile as you straddle him, your breasts thudding into his chest. What a vision, Christ. You feel his fingers between your thighs, alternating between stroking himself and stroking you. So lustful... my queen... when I hauled you off the cement, I could never have imagined how beautiful, how lustful you could be. How sweet you could taste, how wicked wonderful you could feel. His voice slips within you as his mouth is suddenly busy with your own, nipping and sucking, feasting there, and warring there.
     The room fills with a loud grunt (she's at it again??) as his hips lift to meet your semi-circular motion, frustrated when the circuit of your hips move you away. Taking himself in hand again, he strokes himself against you, the dragons licking at your clit as his magic slides with static against your own.
     "My Queen... I thought tonight... the Ardh Rhi was here to serve you," Davydd grins with a lusty gruff, his hands sliding and squeezing himself, moving the head against you, slapping it against you to make you both twitch and groan.
     Ah, that stage of pregnancy when a woman is not cursing the name of the man who got her thus, but actually seeks him out. With a vengeance...

     As much as she teases (vixen to your fox), she is not inclined to tease overlong. She never can sustain that - it's only Rhodri who can torture for any length of time, for she's too impatient, too greedy. Your touch, your voice, your kiss - you can see the effect it has on her. It is as tangible as a scent, a taste, sharp and clear. "Davy..."
     She presses down on your cock suddenly, a little cry of pleasure as you push past the initial tightness to fill her. "I need you in me," Fiona mutters, almost awkward and her face gone red with it. "I can't wait..."
     Her hands curl against your shoulders, and you can feel her tighten around you as her hips rock against yours. This is need, yes. This is desire made solid flesh; you can see every lift of her chest, hear the little gasps she makes, see the colour in her cheeks and the sudden brightness in her eyes even as her eyelashes flutter down. There is a soft moan against your ear as she presses herself so close against you, with that sliding of her belly against your harder abdomen, of her pendulous breasts against your chest. She shifts position with you inside of her, wrapping her legs around you as if to drive you deep into her, as deep as you can go and deeper still, another moan escaping her as she clings to you.
     I need you... Davy, I need you so much. You don't know how much. It is the changeability of a woman, and of a pregnant woman especially. Suddenly, she is almost near tears, shaking in your arms, tightening around you again - still at that high point of arousal, still with you inside of her. You're dangerous and wicked and wonderful and I don't want anything bad to happen to you, Davydd. I love you. I don't know what would happen to me if anything happened to you. I don't want to know. I just need you so much...
     Slowly, she unwinds, that momentary of fervor passing and leaving her shaking within your grasp. Her knees brace her again, and still she's on you, hips now setting up a gentle rhythm, a forward and back matched by a little figure-eight sway. "Look at me," Fiona whispers. "I want you to look at me..."

     You know what they say about crazy women in bed? It's completely, utterly true. You're afraid for your life, which is half the fun of it to be honest. You never know when they're going to burst into tears, or just fuck you into oblivion. It's never been a surprise to me that Malkavian women are among the most treasured in the vampire universe. Or why hormonal, pregnant women are such a complete turn-on.
     His arms go around you as you collapse on him, riding him just as you promised. You need neither whip nor spur to get him moving beneath you. "Nothing's going to happen to me," comes his voice at your ear, his mouth then closing around the lobe of it, flicking at it to tease it after each gentle and not-so-gentle nibble of his fang against it.
     And then, like a schizophrenic sex goddess, your sitting up again, commanding him, taking only so much as you want of him. Davydd blinks his eyes, the male mind slower to catch up when the blood that runs the brain is busy filling other duties. His dark eyes latch onto your breasts, then your hips and belly. Half-masting in his pleasure, they flicker with the flame color of his lashes. Like the forest is on fire...
     If it's burning, lady, you're to blame for it...
     Davydd grins, the distended canines bared to you, the serpents writhing beneath your thighs and inside you, all over as his muscles move in concert to his hips constant motion. Oes, darlin'? Oes... you are quite the vision... I may have to keep you pregnant... He bucks suddenly beneath you, as if to prove a point. Or simply, perhaps, to punctuate it.

     The flick of your tongue and nip of your fangs is more than enough to draw response from her. She is ignoring (or simply not caring enough to think of) the reaction her guards must be having to the sounds that once again echo from the queen's chambers. (She really ought to soundproof the room - but then, if she did, they wouldn't hear if something went wrong, now would they?) "I need you," Fiona whispers. "I'm so incomplete without you..."
     It's the way females feel, the way they talk about sex. Incompletion, missing halves - emotional neediness that can drive men away. She always scorned that, always promised herself she wouldn't descend to that - but now she's burned the paper those promises were written on, demanding answers of you not with her voice but with her body. Her hips roll as you fill her, and for all her usual modesty, bordering almost on shyness, she revels in your gaze upon her skin.
     "Oh, god," Fiona whimpers it as you buck, as she's filled with you. Or maybe it's the mental image you present her with, filling her with your seed again, keeping her pregnant. Woman of the modern age she might be - but the idea has an insidious and perverse pleasure to it. Don't tease. You don't know how often I've fantasized about you getting me pregnant, Davy. It's always turned me on so much, I can't stand it.
     And there's another flash of memory for you, an image of herself in her shower back in London, pleasuring herself in your absence. You'd think that with all the sex she gets from you and your son, she'd never have time (let alone inclination) - but there is that thought, and that phantom image of you in her own imagination, filling her from behind in that shower stall. Her hands tighten, clutching at your shoulders, and her head tips back so that the golden tresses stream down like a sudden jet of waterfall as her hips bear down heavily against yours, the join of her thighs pressing.
     It is a very potent statement you've made, indeed...

     It's ammunition, such fantasies, used against both of you... for he is no more immune to such thoughts than you are. With help from the springy bed, he bounces his hips loudly off the mattress and into you. He cannot go as deeply as your Other, but he fills you grandly in his own way, the head of his cock striking a spot within you to make you quiver.
     Within your mind, images of him coming to you after a hard day of kingly duties, finding you in your court within his castle and with his voice clearing it. He takes you on your maidens' tapestry, comes to you in the garden when you are feeding your doves. Lifting your dresses, coupling with you wherever he might find you, releasing himself in you ... and his kingdom to your care and to your womb. You swell with it, and kingdoms are born, and dreams. Over... and over ... and over again...
     Large hands come to balance at your hips, grasping the new spread of them. His body curling beneath you, musculature on display for you as much as you are for him, he lifts and lowers you onto him, quickening.
     No mortal man has that speed...
     You are the ripening of the grape on the vine... you are the quickening of this seed to life... You are the juice in the berry... the sweet pulp of the grain... His eyes roll to a close, tightening their close as the intensity is coupled by a sudden, strong pulse of magic on the air. You feel it between your thighs as his cock twitches inside you.

     Her nails dig in at your shoulders, at the nape of your neck. She is holding on as if for dear life, now, her voice gone beyond her controlling it. Little sounds that spill out, cheeks reddened in a blush that owes nothing to coy artifice - you can see how she is affected by you. She shows you, wearing her heart where she ever has ... on her sleeve ...
     Davy ... You see her bite her lip, as if to fight off the belling cries that always fill the room and spill beyond - as if to suppress her sounds, to fight the intense pleasure rushing through her. The magic only causes it to spike, though she holds onto it, prolonging things, clamping down on you as her thighs tighten. But she can't hold on forever. Sooner or later, the wave will crest, and break.
     You can feel it; she hurls herself into that magic as if emptying herself of her own magic, to have room for you, room for your seed, your essence. You can feel the tremble in her body, and you know the exact moment when she can't hold on any longer. Fiona gasps, and with the gasp lets out a loud cry as your hips meet hers - a cry that echos, redoubles in the next as she shudders violently in your grasp. Holly King ...
     She calls you by name and by title at the height of her pleasure, fingernails biting as she holds on. Which one of you is in the saddle? Does it matter? You know, now, beyond a doubt - not only how she feels about you...
     ...but how she feels about being pregnant by you...

     You draw blood, but he doesn't mind. The burn of his skin does nothing to halt what's coming. Pistoning transforms into slower, more powerful thrusts as his arms surround you, holding you to him. Within you, his magic spills, moving from where you and he are joined through your convulsive orgasms along your spine to the ends of the strands of your hair. Your skin and his skin are shocked by the pops of the static energy, most prevalent at your clitoris and the nipples of your breasts.
     Davydd chuckles out a groan, his thighs relaxing, lying wide, as his hands balance you in the slowing of his thrusts. His body feels so heavy, for you take more than simple sexual energy from him. Hmm... still the most dangerous man I know... for thirty minutes...
     Grinning, he turns his head beneath the volumes of your hair and he finds your whimpering little mouth, plucking the blushed lips with his own. Within you, the swelling starts to subside as the last of him is given to you. Swallowing, Davydd sighs and he wraps his arms around you gently, but firmly.
     "I see many fat red-haired babies in your future, darlin'... as many as you can stand..."

     She's still shuddering, squirming fretfully in your grasp, not quite able to stay still despite the orgasm. The orgasm makes her skin heavy as lead, the energy you've given her playing merry hell with her and her hormones. "Davy," Fiona sighs it against your mouth as you enfold her. "I love you..."
     Her mouth is so soft under yours, pliant now rather than demanding. "I don't know why," Fiona whispers, "but I want your babies, Davy. Never thought I'd be like this. So damn girly I can't stand it. It turns me on... thinking about you turning up and telling me you're going to get me pregnant ... and then doing it." Her hands grasp at you slowly, clumsily as she leans her weight against you. "I suppose I do know why... Holly King..."
     Eyes closed, she nuzzles against your shoulder, against your chest as she lies there with a sigh. You bear her weight now; you can feel the pulse of her slowing gradually. One hand slips from your shoulder down to between your body and hers, resting on her belly. "Better rest while you can," Fiona murmurs. "You do know that I want more, don't you?"

     One green eye opens, followed by another. At first, the look is You've got to be joking woman! and then it eases into a slanting, meteoric grin. "I think a power nap will be in order..." His hands slide along your sides and squeeze your rear, tapping it with a light spank. "You naughty thing, you."
     Gently, his softened length still making contact with your own sex, Davydd rolls you in his arms and upon your side. A much better angle, he thinks, for making pillows of your breasts. He buries his face there, teasing with his chuckles muffled. He will rest, yes, but he won't be inactive.
     His mouth clamps down on a nipple, his mouth tugging, lips suckling, and gentle teeth tugging. Death of orgasm, rebirth of passion. These are the Holly King's domain. "God, I could live here," Davydd murbles between your breasts, his mouth seeking your other nipple.
     "I need to fill you, I need you to bear my weight and my children. Not ... out of some political mandate but the... insistence of my own power... it is... who I am... it is who We Are when we are together. We copulate like wild animals..." His voice trails off as the flat of his tongue rolls over a swollen nub. We are the death and the birth of every year.

     She squirms a little as your hands find their way along her, small pleased sounds escaping her nonetheless. You bring her to you, your face to her breasts, and there is a sigh. Soon, it will not be your lips upon her nipples, but your son's and your grandson's. Soon, she will be no longer merely pregnant but a mother, and it both frightens and excites her.
     "You can't live there forever," Fiona murmurs lazily, her hands coming up, fingers lacing together through the thatching your red hair. "Pretty soon the tenants downstairs will be moving out, and I'd have to evict you." She gurgles with mirth, the chortle ending with a soft moan. "Careful," she half-whimpers it, "they're ... sensitive..."
     It isn't so much a warning as a statement, for she squirms and you can see how sensitive she is. The colour stays high in her face, the pressure of her hands holding you to her breasts. The pulsing of her blood in her veins is felt by you in the engorged flesh, just as it was felt by you as you were inside of her. The cream of her skin will be touched by strawberry red for just as long as you keep her in this state, it's clear.
     "I love you, Davy." Her voice is soft, almost childish for a moment, the words whispered down into your ear. She smoothes a hand gently against your hair, against your shoulders. "But I also need you. If I'm to be your White Lady... little wonder that I'm so helpless to you, hm?" Fiona smiles, though you do not see it; tenderness crinkling at the corners of her eyes, gentleness in her touch. "You drive me half-mad and then I don't mind going the rest of the way. When I'm not pregnant, I'm going to have to keep finding you in London at random times... make you as crazy as you make me."
     She sighs, not as if unhappy, but as if suddenly ensorcelled. Your mouth upon her nipples is having that effect, the narcotic effect of sexual release combined with the milking effect of your mouth. We're meant to Be, Davy. Some winter I will find you and make you take me on your altar, even though the snow's on it. I'll goad and tease until you can't stand it anymore and have to have me. And then promise me you'll warm me with your fires...

     You warn him, and while he heeds the warning in terms of gentleness, he ignores it in terms of leaving them be. No, he feels them swelling in his mouth, he knows the sensitivity and he enjoys it. As do you. with the flat of his tongue, with the gently plucking lips, the occasional tugging with his teeth, he does not stop but rather goes from nipple to nipple in quick succession.
     His mouth is expert, pulling just enough to cause an ache, but not enough for that ache to transform to get-off-me pain. All three are helpless in that story, comes the Holly King's voice within you, leaping from where his mouth busies itself, traveling from one breast to the other. One hand comes up, fingers rolling the nipple so recently abandoned between them, strongly but gently all the same.
     Some winter? Why not this Christmas? Davydd teases back, the tease echoed with a smile against your skin.

     "Well, we can be helpless ... ah! together," Fiona murmurs to you, the words separated by a little cry that she can't suppress. It isn't pain. A gaze darkened and dulled with the opiate of pleasure is turned onto you almost longingly, her lips remaining parted as she cradles your face again with her hands. Isn't that how this began?
     "T-this Christmas..." She sighs, drawing one thigh up to roll it over your hip so that her lower half is pressed to yours. "I suppose I could. I thought you wanted me to dust myself in peppermint and wrap myself in red ribbons and bows for you, but I could do that instead. Or I could be your Christmas elf, Father Christmas." You get a flicker of an image, a short, cute green satin skirt trimmed with white fur, matching jacket and cap and pelisse. She has to accessorize; she so does enjoy playing dressup for you.
     "My big bad ol' wolf," Fiona murmurs with a contented sound that turns into a gasp. "Mmm... you've turned me into a nymphomaniac, Davydd. How did you do it?"

     Davydd chuckles, his attention broken, and your breasts for the moment freed. "Why does one thing negate the other?" he wonders softly, his mouth lifting to your own, teasing your lips now as he had your breasts before with tugging kisses and teasing teeth. "You can play minx and goddess on the same night," the king suggests.
     And between your thighs you feel his fingers, two strong sliding touches against you as if to measure your arousal. They roll the nub they find there and tease you with the slip of their tips within you.
     Grinning at your question, and really more at your reactions, he begins a interchange of rolling fingers and teasing thrusts. "I'm not sure, to be honest. One minute, you're an angry virgin, then all of the sudden you're in my bed, and voila ... a nymph...I'm as surprised as you are. Thankful, mind you," he chuckles, "...but surprised."
     Davydd parts your mouth beneath his own, his lips insistent and his tongue invading. Mm... peppermint dust. I can lick every surface of you clean. My little, private candy cane. I do like it when you dress up for me. Maybe you should make your hair bright red for the holidays. Hmm... like the old days when I just thought about fucking you like I do now...
     His large body rolls back a bit, the kiss separating and his head bowing to watch his fingers slide against you. "I think I'll wear a garland around my jimmy with a sprig of mistletoe," Davydd grins, winking at you as his fingers thrust inside you and his thumb rolls over your clit. "Ho-ho-ho..."

Posted by rowan at August 11, 2005 01:00 PM